


The Last Resort

by Baibaba



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mild Gore, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baibaba/pseuds/Baibaba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles cuts Derek's arm off and Scott tries really hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Resort

“Fuck you, Scott” is what Stiles has on repeat in his head. Along with the fan favorite, “By the end of this I’m going away for accidental manslaughter.” And his own personal favorite that stimulates his big-boy emotions in a weird and often terrifying way, “You either cut my goddamn arm off now, or I will murder your face.”

The expression on Derek’s own face sells it. It kills him, really. It is a cross between constipation and the true look of someone who will, without any lingering doubts of morality, strangle him in his sleep. It would happen in his sleep too, because Derek would want Stiles to feel secure in his own bed first before scaring the absolute shit out of him. No doubt a fantasy Derek has had before.

It’s really obvious in the way he threatens Stiles. Like he enjoys it, the sadistic bastard.

At this juncture in this insanity that he calls his life though, Stiles doesn’t really have any room to throw stones. His house isn’t even made of glass at this point. It’s just him standing in a field with a red and white target strapped to his chest.

It had been a long day filled with sitting in his jeep next to Derek who might as well have been a zombie and trying to find a radio station that wasn’t static. He hadn’t been joking when he could smell death on the werewolf. A mixture of rotting flesh, because he totally knows what that smells like, he’s seen every episode of Law & Order so he knows, and blood. Stiles had sat next to a dying bucket made out of human flesh filled with smelly werewolf blood for hours on end until Scott got his act together. It’s a stench that will never come out of the upholstery.

Stiles should be thinking of the upcoming Winter Dance. He should be sampling colognes at the mall that he’d think would make Lydia weak in the knees. There should be different tuxes and suits lined up in his room and he should be there with his dad trying to pick which one makes him look the tiniest bit debonair.

Instead he’s at the vet clinic after hours with a bone saw vibrating in his hand. Plus Derek. Derek who isn’t a bundle of sunny sunshine even when he’s not about to become an amputee.

Stiles doesn’t have a lot of regrets in his less-than-two-decades of life, with about five of those years a complete blank because he’s not one of those “special” people who remember their births or first days of Beacon Hills Sunny Side-Up Daycare. No, for the most part excluding a certain few cases involving one strawberry blonde goddess, Stiles has a clean slate in the context of “Regrets”. But today. Today is the day where the biggest regret of all has happened.

He took an Adderall.

He likes to call this type of screw-up as having a “Scott Moment”.

He is horribly aware, even with his eyes slammed shut and his brain valiantly trying to ignore the sounds of the saw, of the vet office and what is happening in said vet office. The volume of details is cranked up to 11. The fluorescent lights which were dim when he first dragged Derek inside, are blinding now. They are determined to make Stiles acknowledge what is happening.

He’s aware of every small moment and the Adderall world is in perpetual slow motion allowing him to pick up every grain of gruesome detail that he would be happy to live to 98 years old without ever remembering. How the lights are flickering every five seconds. How the metal table that is welded to the ground is creaking under the weight of what must be Derek’s attempt to control himself--Stiles can only guess because he will not be opening his eyes in the foreseeable future. He can hear the cats in the other room screeching and the dogs are very, very quiet. Like they’re scared. Like the pain Derek is feeling is spreading like some sort of canine toxin.

Stiles can only assume that he has hit the half way point when the saw meets more resistance, the grinding is harsher, and fuck--he can smell smoke. The saw is crunching away at--at

He can’t be both sane and finish that thought. It’s implausible.

Up until this point Derek has been mostly quiet. Except for the occasional scraping of claws against metal. And the cursing that ends in ‘Stilinski’. Stiles is in awe of the cojones on Derek. Stiles can’t even imagine what he would be like in this situation. Probably passed out before the saw even broke skin. He sure as Hell wouldn’t be conscious enough to grunt manfully and still be standing in the same spot where they began this laughable imitation of surgery.

Stiles hopes Derek has his eyes closed, that the werewolf isn’t watching. And he is so damn grateful that Derek isn’t making him do this with his eyes open.

Derek is a guy who Stiles had always categorized as stoic and reserved. A person who would fit a 1920’s Noir detective character with the subtle lack of emotion that only ever seems to pour out in streams of subdued angry threats. Aimed mainly at Stiles himself. This was the status quo.

It shouldn’t be shocking when it happens, given that the situation is morbid and horrifying in the best of light, but it is. Stiles almost cracks open his eyes when Derek let’s out strangled howl. The sound of it shoots straight to Stiles’ bones and reverberates in his chest. It’s loud and belongs to a horror film. Stiles flinches, which just makes the cry Derek is making louder and so much more painful sounding.

Which makes sense. Stiles is cutting off an arm. While Derek is fully conscious. And standing like some sort of badass cowboy from space. And did Stiles mention that he is cutting. off. an. arm.

He wants to stop. But like everything else in Stiles’ life, he doesn’t get to do what he wants. He readjusts his grip on the saw, ignoring how slippery it is. He’s going to get through this and he’s going to make himself a freaking medal.

Stiles pushes on and tries to imagine that he’s slicing the Thanksgiving turkey. Something he’s always dreamed of doing. The last time him and his dad had a traditional Thanksgiving dinner with a basted turkey was years ago when his mother was still alive and then his dad had been the one to carve the damn bird. Stiles had always sat in his chair, bouncing up and down, asking his dad again and again if this year he could be the one to cut and place the slices neatly on everyone’s plates. He had known with only the kind of certainty that one believes in Santa, that he would be amazing at it.

Last Thanksgiving he had eaten with Scott, the bastard, and his mom while his dad had been out arresting eleven drunks and two women for public indecency. The food had been mouth watering good though.

So he pretends, truly tries to at least and really it doesn’t work if he’s being honest with himself. Underneath the undeniable and chilling sound of the saw Derek is breathing heavily and theres something close to a whine in every hitch of his breath.

The grinding stops and the smoke from the blade, a smell that had been briefly more overpowering than the iron of the blood, gets less and less apparent.

It only takes a few more seconds for the steady pressure Stiles has been applying to make the saw slice through whatever is left of Derek’s arm and to hit the metal table.

There’s a distinct THUD that causes his stomach to lurch and make an attempt to escape via the passageway of his throat. Stiles denies knowing exactly what just made that noise.

Immediately he tosses the machine. Fuck it, he doesn’t care if it’s off. The saw becomes a steady background soundtrack to Derek’s shaky breathing and Stiles’ own dry heaving. He’s bent at the waist clutching the table and steadfastly ignoring just how slippery it is.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. In fact if he could go blind within the next few minutes he would greatly appreciate it. He could totally get a guide dog. He’ll just put a leash on Scott because that dumbass owes him so much he can’t even quantify the amount of owe-ness. It’s that goddamn big. And he will be having a very stern and possibly violent conversation with his so called “best friend” as soon as Stiles is capable of using his mouth for anything other than projectile vomiting.

As much as he wants to pretend that that didn’t just happen, he’s sadly never been great at letting things go.

“Derek?” Stiles manages to say without spewing what he had for lunch everywhere. His voice is decidedly more hesitant than he’d like it to be. If Stile’s ended up nicking some werewolf artery that caused the bastard to bleed out he’s going to kill himself. There’s only so much trauma he can take.

He takes a peek and there’s a lot of red.

The room is filled with blood, splattered on the walls and the floor and all over his clothes and face and hands and Stiles skips over the lump of good-god-I-did-that currently lying on the table to look at the werewolf who apparently hasn’t moved since threatening to bite his face off.

Derek is still standing. He’s paler than when they came in. He’s shaking and Stiles can only stare at the place where his arm used to be because it’s not healing like he’d expected it to heal. There’s no fresh skin. It’s all a bloody mess. He can’t tear his eyes off the wrangled massacre of flesh.

The only upside he can see is that Derek isn’t gushing blood.

“Why aren’t you healing? Where the Hell are your freakin’ super-freaking-powers, man?!” Yeah, he’s panicking. Werewolves are supposed to heal, they shouldn’t be standing there minus one limb and not be as spry as, well, a werewolf. It doesn’t make sense and if Derek falls over dead he has no clue how he’s going to talk his way out of this to his dad. There’s no lie in the world to cover the colossal mistake of cutting Derek’s arm off and not laying down plastic beforehand. That was the whole point of watching Dexter, to prepare when these situations happen. Scott had called him crazy, but again, Fuck Scott and his ‘They’re making me stay for cookies’ excuses.

How is he supposed to clean up the evidence when the evidence is everywhere.

And he, for one, is not going to be burying a dead supernatural being in the woods alone. He just doesn’t have the balls to carry something like that out and not have a mental breakdown. He’d leave DNA evidence everywhere. He’d be arrested in minutes. Prison and Stiles Stilinski do not go together. He can’t even watch an episode of Oz without having nightmares for a solid week. He doesn’t look good with lipstick. He’s tried and it just doesn’t work for him.

Nightmares at this point are a given and will just be a permanent part of his life. Like breathing.

It takes a while for Derek to look up. His eyes are glazed over and it’s painfully obvious that he’s not all there.

“You okay there, wolf man?”

Nothing. Of course there would be nothing.

It’s a dumb question, something Scott would say because he is Captain Obvious incarnate, but Stiles really has no idea what he should be doing. What the correct etiquette for the afterglow of cutting someone’s arm off is. Derek glares at him though, the one with the furrowed brows and promises of deboning, so Stiles takes it as the best damn positive thing to happen in the past decade of his moronic life.

It’s an amazingly normal moment, surrounded by blood and bits of muscle tissue, witnessing Derek being Derek. Stiles is clinging to this little factoid.

He kind of wants to high-five Derek, it feels like one of those real bonding moments people always have after a near-death experience. He rethinks it though, might be in poor taste. What if Derek raises his nub. Is he supposed to fist bump instead?

It’s a brief bout of relief though because that’s when Derek has the genius idea to keel over. It happens quickly. One second Derek is a bleeding mess, but standing. The next he’s on the ground. The torch of hope that this night will end remotely well has long since burned out.

It couldn’t get any worse. Except when it does. There is no such thing as rockbottom. A fact in life that he is now fully aware of.

It’s the familiar sensation of feeling like he’s about to die. Like he’s having a heart attack and the world goes from under a microscope to spinning.

Stiles has his first panic attack in years.

 

* * *

 

The most awkward dinner Scott has ever had was when his mom and his dad sat him down and told him the separation would be permanent. His mom had served salmon with brown rice. It had been the time where she had been obsessed with being healthy. Scott had hated it and dreamed of having a mom that would feed him hamburgers and fries and let him have a cookie.

But that particular emotional scar of a dinner did not have anything on what eating with Allison’s family was like. Chris Argent seemed to be watching how he ate and asking him the kind of questions that were so personal that Scott knows his mother would never ask. Every move he made the thought that he was somehow holding fork like a werewolf would hold a fork and somehow Chris knew this and it all made Scott’s shirt soaked in sweat.

All this though would be worth it. This was what kept him from sneaking out the bathroom window and literally running for his life.

Scott’s favorite movie, one he re-watched every month with or without Stiles, is The Sandlot. This is important because it sums up the situation he’s found himself in perfectly. The movie is about a bunch of kids trying to get their autographed baseball back from the creepy guy next door with the monster dog called ‘The Beast’. It’s strangely relevant at this moment, mostly because the main character’s name is Scotty. But technically Scott would be the dog and it’s not so much a baseball as a magic bullet that has managed to take down the local scary werewolf. Substitute the creepy neighbor for the hot blonde aunt of his girlfriend and her hunter dad, then it’s basically the same situation, but with a whole lot more guns and reluctance on Scott’s part.

It’s a solid movie. Everyone should watch it.

It had taken more sneaking skills than he knew he had. Every little rusty squeal of the door was a booming force to him. That may have just been his werewolf senses but he is in a house full of hunters. And they’re probably all paranoid. Especially Allison’s dad.

Despite everything, he has the bullet. Just like Scotty finally got the baseball. And Scott is reaching the end of the movie and he hopes that he can escape the awkward family interrogation/dinner without a confrontation. He can imagine the credits. he can hear the music when the screen finally fades to black.

He get’s so close and is only a foot from being in the Argent house to being a foot outside the Argent house.

“I want whatever you took from my room.” Kate has her hand out waiting and the look on her face clearly says that she knows something.

He’s dead and he was so, so close to not being dead.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It’s not like Scott was shot with the bullet, it was Derek’s own fault for getting caught in the cross hairs. And he and Derek aren’t exactly friends. More like acquaintances who threaten each other on an every other day type of schedule. Honestly, his life would be easier if he didn’t have Derek popping up out of no where to tell him he’s about to kill everyone or what new werewolf code he’s broken now.

But that type of thinking isn’t right. He’s not the type of person to abandon someone who’s basically helpless, even if that person is Derek who intimidates him almost as much as Chris Argent. Who is staring at him like he can’t decide on if he should stop Kate’s harassment or if he should join in on the fun.

If he does give the bullet up there’s really no explanation that wouldn’t result with him on the floor with a shiny new bullet in his head or a knife lodged in his chest. Or worse, he could end up like Laura and be split in half. He doesn’t even know how someone could do that.

Scott’s palms are sweaty and he successfully stops himself from wiping them on his jeans because that would draw attention to his pocket. The Wolfsbane bullet is a solid lump in his jeans and the weight of it seems to increase every time Kate inches her way closer to him. The only bright side is that Allison comes closer too, shielding him. It’s kind of awesome.

“I know you were in my room, Scott. I don’t know why, but someone was in there. Now give whatever you’re sneaky little klepto hands took, back to me.”

He’s gonna die and Derek is going to kill him. It’s going to look like he fell into a wood chipper.

“I didn’t take anything from your room.” Scott says. He looks to Allison.

“See, I know you did, because my duffle bag was moved.” Kate smiles. It’s not a nice smile. It’s creepy and unkind.

“Well, it wasn’t me.”

“Kate, maybe you should--“ Chris starts, a hand on his sister’s shoulder. She shrugs him off and leans into Scott’s personal space. Scott’s never had a big personal bubble like other people. He doesn’t care about if someone wants to touch him, as long as its friendly and absent of any bad-touches.

Kate crosses all those barely there boundaries though when she shoves her hand in his pant’s pocket.

“What are you doing?” Allison’s heartbeat is going haywire. Scott only barely catches himself from growing fangs.

“What the Hell?” Scott squeaks grabbing her wrist, but it’s too late. The satisfied smirk on her face and the smell of satisfaction in the air is just too strong. Slowly, Kate backs away. She’s holding the bullet up.

“I believe someone here owes me an apology.”

Scott doesn’t have to be a werewolf to hear the gasp from Allison or the shotgun being cocked by Mrs. Argent in the kitchen.

It does help though, to be a werewolf when he makes a run for it.

 

* * *

 

The panic attack hadn’t been too awful. Compared to other things happening at the moment.

Things he will be forgetting as soon as possible.

Things that a therapist would commit him for.

Things that had made him throw up twice at the vet and once in the car while driving. Though the third had been more of a dry heave situation. It had lasted longer than necessary though.

Stiles has made a system for dealing with the pure panickiness of a panic attack. Step one is to comprehend that yes, he is having an attack. This is an essential step. Just realizing the tightness in his chest and the dizziness are because of the attack does a great deal in calming him down.

Steps two through five are really just breath and know that what he’s feeling will pass.

He’d managed to calm himself down through the sheer effort of dragging Derek to his jeep. The guy is heavy. And wily. The limbs he had left were flailing everywhere they shouldn’t go. Though the Adderall had given him a boost of energy and the determination to get Derek into the car right now. Stiles still thinks this was to spite him. Even passed out cold Derek wants to mess with him. His stupid handsome face mocking him. And using his 180 ponds of muscle and abs was super effective.

As the narrator of Pokemon would say. Whoever that was. (Dad had once said it was Ash, but Stiles is 98% certain he has no idea what a Blastoise is.)

Stiles puts his car in neutral a block away from his house. It’s a safety measure he’s learned to do whenever he sneaks out passed his curfew. Being the son of the sheriff isn’t all ride-alongs and special treatment, there’s also a strict time limit he can be outside when the sun has gone night-night (as dad had put it oh so maturely). Not like he’s ever obeyed that certain rule.

Because god forbid he’d be safe in his room at night when there are murders happening. That just doesn’t make sense at all.

And if Stiles is one thing in life, he’s smart.

The only problem with rolling down an entire block on a slight downslope with a comatose werewolf riding shotgun is the brakes. Sure, there are about 99 other issues. Like the amount of blood all over his upholstery. Half from Derek, who should have been dead twenty minutes ago with the amount that came out of him. And half from Stiles himself, his clothes are covered in werewolf blood. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if it had been gallons of blood that had covered the vet.

No the real problem is the jeep. It’s been a solid year since he got his baby pampered. The brakes squeal extra loudly when he pushes too hard on them. Stiles eyes the neighborhood. It’s dark. No one’s out. It’s only 8:30 and everyone seems to be inside. Stiles has never been so thankful for a crazy alpha on the loose.

It’s a slow process, but Stiles manages to get down the street without any neighbors poking their head out of the window.

Dread settles in his stomach. Like a brick.

Although it felt like years had gone by since this morning, Stiles remembers dad had said he would be working the night shift. It’s one of those explicit memories, the kind that sticks in the head for selfish reasons. Stiles, before Derek freaking Hale happened, had planned a night of debauchery involving his right, and sometimes left, hand.

The lights are on. Even five houses down Stiles can see the blare of the television. He stops the car in front of Mrs. Greenburg’s house. They’re on one of their family vacations. Stiles get’s twenty bucks for watering her two-years-in-a-row prize winning imported Abraham Darby roses. They won’t be witnessing his little break down.

His steering wheel is covered in sweat. His knuckles are white.

Stiles looks to Derek.

“We are so screwed.” He says to Derek. He is not going to start talking to himself. Not when there’s another person/animal/monster/man-dude present for him to brainstorm at.

“And mentally ruined for life.”

“I am at least. I don’t know what you do in your spare time, but I would put what will forever remain nameless as a once in a life time type of thing.”

“If you don’t wake up in the next twenty seconds I am going to ditch you in the woods.” He wouldn’t, but fuck Derek and really fuck you Scott, “A mildly strong Chihuahua would totally be able to kill you right now.”

He waits a beat. Absolutely nothing.

“And I would totally let it too. It would be a girl Chihuahua. With a little pink sequin leopard jacket. Paris Hilton in dog form would just beat your ass right now.” He pauses for dramatic effect, “And I would enjoy it.”

Stiles has two choices. He can continue his .00025 mph roll to his house. Somehow leverage Derek, the jerk, out of his jeep and into his house, preferably the upstairs hallway bathroom that he has claimed as his own via dirty underwear and dad’s unwillingness to pick them up. Risk running into dad who when he isn’t working is catching up on old episodes of the X Files. Plus, the blood. Stiles pinches his shirt and tries his best to keep in the ‘Oh God’. Despite having the windows down, his clothes are still wet. Derek is in no better shape. There’s no rescuing these clothes. Everything is going to have to be burned. The amount of peroxide he’d have to buy to get the blood stains out would raise suspicions. Everyone in Beacon Hills seems to know he’s the sheriff’s son.

But all of Plan A depends on Stiles actually managing to drag Derek up to the second floor of his house.

Which is, sadly, impossible. He had a hard enough time lifting Derek from the single story vet clinic to the parking lot right outside. His muscles are already sore. This is what sitting on the bench in every Lacrosse game will get you.

Also, a depleted ego.

Plan B is using his key to Scott’s house. He’d made a copy about three years ago. The idea then had been if Scott had an asthma attack he’d be able to get in his house and help his friend. He’s never actually used the key for that. It had mainly served as his gateway to putting saran wrap over Scott’s toilet. Or his doorway. Scott sleeps like a freaking rock.

Anyways.

Stiles knows Ms. McCall is working at the hospital. He’d memorized her schedule along with dad’s. Scott only lives fifteen minutes by bike ride and barely five by car.

Derek shifts. Stiles barely catches his heart from escaping his throat.

“Laura?” Derek’s eyes are glazed over. Looking around the car like he doesn’t know where he is. All worrying observations. Stiles hopes he doesn’t notice the lack of arm. He’s not entirely sure how much a single muscular arm weighs, but it has to be noticeable.

Derek looks Stiles up and down. It’s kind of what Stiles thinks being checked out would feel like. He knows though, that Derek is about as checked out as a werewolf could possibly be.

“Hey... buddy?” Smooth Stiles. Call him ‘buddy’. That’s normal.

He starts the car and makes a U-turn out of the neighborhood. Derek is sitting up. Stiles takes a chance and looks at Derek, who is staring at his nub with an amazing amount of apathy. Really, Stiles has no idea how Derek’s brain works, in shock or sobered up mode, Derek Hale is a goddamn mystery.

Stiles catches his eye when he looks back up and Stiles swerves his head back to the road and immediately continues his safe driving.

“Where’s Laura?”

She’s dead.

“I really don’t know.” He bites his tongue. Stiles Stilinski is not going to kick a wolf when he’s already down. And it is the truth. Maybe there really is a Heaven. Or maybe she’s haunting the woods. A scary werewolf ghost. That’s obviously a thing.

Derek is squinting at him. Like the sun is in his eyes and it’s not nine o’clock at night.

“Stiles?”

“That’s me. Little ole Stiles Stilinski. The greatest, most dependable friend on the planet. Hermoso Stiles. Hübsch Stiles. Bow down before me for I am Stiles the Magnificent--”

“You’re so annoying.” Derek slurs out. His head lolling side to side with the jeep. The suspension isn’t good. Driving over a pebble feels like going over a rocky mountainside.

“As rehashed and stereotypical as this will sound,” Stiles grips the steering wheel way too tightly, his fingers are going to go numb, “I liked you so much more when you were unconscious. Borderline loved you when you weren’t mentally present.”

It would be a confession if there hadn’t been so much sarcasm layered over the bite.

Stiles might just be magical. As soon as he says it, Derek slumps in his seat, his head hitting the window with a loud THUD that makes Stiles wince. Stiles let’s out a sigh that must weigh at the very least twenty-three pounds. If only some half giant would come to him and say ‘You’re a wizard, Stilinski’.

Stiles makes sure to stay in the speed limit. Cars are always on patrol, more frequently now that there are murders. He glances at Derek, who is drooling all over the seat. It’s not cute. It’s not at all endearing.

Derek is a mess and Stiles can only wonder if either of them will live through the night to strangle Scott. Stiles chances another look at Derek.

Laura, huh?


End file.
